Danish philosopher and theologian Soren Kierkegaard wisely said: “Life
is not a problem to be solved but a mystery to be lived.” Many years later I
read a maxim by Oscar Wilde “The final mystery is oneself.” It is a mystery why
you and I have been afflicted with this troubling disease (bipolar depression).
Perhaps, you too, once asked yourself “Why me and not the other members of our
families?” Perhaps, you also felt that it was some sort of a curse, or a
punishment for past sins. In the beginning, when I had lost my mind completely
for the first time in June of 1989, I felt what seemed to be an inner battle
for both my soul and my mind. I felt, tasted and breathed a fear that I had
never known before. I felt such shame in accepting the fact that I was
“troubled in mind.” I felt certain that I had a broken brain as well as a
broken heart. I did not know where to turn with that pain and for the better
part of my life, I internalized it.
There
was then, and sadly still is, such a stigma attached to mental illness. I had
the feeling that everyone was looking at me differently and strangers would
know that I was “different.” I believed that people would treat me differently
if they knew. Perhaps they would love and respect me less. I could not talk
about it. I would not talk about it.
I did not know what had happened to me, or why, but I could not
forget the experience. The only thing I knew for certain was that none of my
family, not my husband, or our children, our families or our friends, as much
as they loved and supported me, could possibly know nor understand what I was
going through. They recognized that something was seriously wrong with me.
Hell, I knew something was wrong with me. But they did not know how to help me
and their immediate response seemed to be “She’s broken, fix her.”
None
of them could feel my pain, share my shame, or touch my fear. Embracing that
fear was the most difficult thing for me to do. I was not certain if it was my
own fear, or the fear that I read in so many other peoples’ faces strangers and
loved ones that bothered me more.
For the first time in my life, I surrendered completely to God who I
desperately needed to take control of my situation and my life. I needed help
to endure this trial. I had to trust that He would see me through. I had never
felt closer to God than I did when I first became ill. It seemed that He was
the only person who really heard me. It was the second time in my life that I
became acutely aware of His presence, the first was when my mother had tried to
kill herself when I was nineteen years old and I had found her sprawled on the
upstairs hall floor in October of 1976 after she had overdosed on a bottle of
sleeping pills. But this was the first time that I personally trusted God
enough to help me personally. Perhaps that was part of the problem; I could not
completely TRUST anyone.
I
recognized that I had fallen apart like Humpty Dumpty and wondered if I would
ever gather the fragments of my former self together and be normal again. The
truth is that I am not normal, I never was, and I knew it. But how does society
define normal? We are all wounded and broken in various ways and to different
degrees.
Ernest Hemingway had written about being “strong at the broken places” and
others have said that there are within each of us wounds that only God may
touch. Mine was a wound, or a succession of wounds, so deep, I myself, did not
know the depth of that pain. We also hurt and we heal by various degrees.
Several years later, after my open heart surgery at aged thirty eight to repair
a hole in my heart, my friend and ex-teacher Angie told me that sometimes the
healing process hurts far more than the original wound. And she was right. This
is a truth which can be applied to spiritual, psychological and emotional
wounds as well. They are long painful healing processes that do not occur
overnight.
Our
lives circumstances and our personalities make us very different people. We
each have our individual coping mechanisms. I do not know you and you do not
know me, but I share your pain-I know it well. I have been where you are now
and lived with my disorder for many years. Every day is a constant struggle
when you are mentally ill.
Galileo had said “We cannot teach a man anything, we can only help him to
discover it within himself.” What helped me may not necessarily help you. The
drugs that worked for me may not work for you. It will take years of various
medications and a long succession of doctors until you find the proper
combination that works best for you.
The
first step in my own recovery was learning all that I could about this disease.
It helped that my husband Ian was willing to learn all he could about it too,
in an effort to understand what I was going through and what he should expect.
I then learned to accept it. Knowing that it is incurable, hereditary
but that it could be controlled, gave me the hope and reassurance that I would
not be lost in this darkness forever.
I then found a doctor whom I felt comfortable with and finally a
medication that worked for me. This process did not happen overnight. It took
me over nine years and three more psychotic breakdowns before it was under
control. In the meantime, I deepened my spiritually and strengthened my
relationships with my loved ones and with God. I read numerous books that
helped me, one in particular by a psychiatrist Dr. Kay Redfield Jamison who is
herself, bipolar since the age of seventeen. Her book “An Unquiet Mind” totally
changed my life and gave me the courage to go back to school part-time in
September 2002 to work on my English Literature degree.
When
reading the epilogue of Jamison’s book, I cried uncontrollably because for the
first time since developing this disorder, someone described precisely how I
felt and what I experienced with brutal honesty and raw emotion. She spoke as a
patient and a fellow traveler on a long and arduous journey rather than as a
doctor using medical jargon that I may or may not understand. Her approach was
emphatic and compassionate rather than cold and clinical. She spoke from human
experience rather than from a clinical perspective. She shared the pilgrimage
with me and knew the darkness, both the highs and the lows. She did not let her
illness define her, and from then on, neither would I.
I
too, had several things in my favour. I have a huge loving and supportive
family including my in-laws, good friends and intense faith in a higher power
and a strong sense of humour. Sadly, as I witnessed for myself during my
hospitalizations, many patients, coping with mental illness do not have these
blessings.
Please understand that although most of my family does accept that I have this
disorder not everyone in my family and not all of my friends understand nor
want to understand this illness. Many of them view it as a character flaw, a
weakness, or a blemish on the family history. Many do not want to deal with the
issue and therefore, will not talk about it. In many cases, I think it is
because it frightens them and the possibility that it could happen to any one
of them; or to future generations is an abject reality they simply cannot or
will not face. T. S. Eliot had said, “Human kind cannot bear very much reality”
and he was right.
If I
had cancer, heart disease or any other physical disease they would be far more
tolerant and understanding, but mental illness is generally viewed as a
psychological disorder and the biological component is seldom addressed. It is
a chemical imbalance in the brain which a drug helps regulate. If not for my
medication, I would not be able to function as normally as I do.
I love to read, to write, to reflect and to record these
reflections in my journals. I enjoy long walks and being with my loved ones,
especially the intimate candlelight dinners with my husband, and dancing with
him until the wee hours of the morning. I love movies and popcorn, cooking
various culinary dishes from different countries, good food, good company and
good conversation. I love the sanctity and peace I feel in my home and being
with my husband, my family and my friends.
I
have learned to love life and to count my blessings. I have learned to enjoy
the moments. But most importantly, I have learned to embrace the pain, feel the
full weight of it and then let it go. I have allowed myself the freedom to love
and to allow myself to be loved in return. I have, since embarking on this
journey, found a sense of purpose in my life, and as strangely as it sounds for
having developed this disorder, a gratitude for having become a more
compassionate, loving and tolerant human being because of it.
Bipolar depression is part of who I am, but I do not let it control me. Life
wounds all of us and the scars forever remain. Although I have learned to
accept and to control my illness, I also learned to view the world and myself
through very different eyes. I have changed my perceptions regarding many
things.
I can recommend various books to help you toward better spiritual,
mental and emotional health. Books have always been my closest companions. They
are friends, teachers, and guides. I do not know you, but I shall hold you in
my heart, in my thoughts and always in my prayers.
Lynn-Marie Ramjass
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